Rightfully Mine
by Maya Beebop
Summary: He's come to pay her back...  set in movie and cartoon
1. Belonged To Him

**A/N: This story, originally written by "Zee's Girl aka Ro", has the same title and same basic plotline up to the end of chapter 2. After that, I take the liberty of continuing the story that unfortunately could not be finished by the original authoress. **

**To enhance your reading, try listening to the songs on Evanescence's album "Fallen".

* * *

**

"Adam, honey, I'm worried." Barbara looked down over the pale and fitfully sleeping form of Lydia and she knitted her eyebrows in care. "This is the third day in a row she's been sick."

Adam Maitland, who was busy trying to fix the leg of a broken chair that usually sat under the desk, glanced over. "The doctor said it was only a stomach flu, Barb. She'll get better."

"But school-…"

"Honey-…" he grunted as he tried to hold the two splintered pieces perfectly still as they dried. "Her health is more important that her work. We should just leave it alone until it gets better. They gave her medicine, didn't they?"

"Just antibiotics. But this looks so bad…" Barbara sat down gingerly on the edge of the mattress, smoothing the girl's tousled hair out of her sallow face. "I just feel like it's more than it seems to be."

"Well, that's how it always is. Always looks worse than it is. Don't worry, Barbara."

He finished the chair and left it upside-down to securely dry. Crossing over, he took his wife's hand and led her from the bedroom and towards the attic. "She's still alive, Barb. And living people still get sick. She'll get better."

* * *

Meanwhile, Beetlejuice was livid. Not only had he wasted six months on the other side waiting to get reprocessed, but he'd also been banished to the urban part of the Neitherworld where he now lived. To add insult to injury, he'd had to shell out a lot of cash to get his head resized.

The roadside motel he now lived in was dingy at best, stocked with the most diverse insect and fungus life this side of a public high-school bathroom. While that was no problem for him, it was still meant as a punishment and he resented it.

And all because that little backstabbing harlot ruined his one and only chance to get out for good.

He tossed and turned in the overstuffed, threadbare easy chair he was sitting in, trying to get comfortable. But with each prick and poke of the loose springs stabbing into him, he remembered that day with more and more upsetting clarity. Never mind the fact that he could've saved the Maitlands _and_ slowed down the recovery so they couldn't have screwed up the wedding; the Deetz girl could've just stuck to her word and said "yes" instead of making him waste time impersonating her voice.

Of _course_ he knew she wouldn't have come willingly. And forcing the marriage was just so time-consuming. He groaned in frustration; they should've gotten it done in the Neitherworld, where he could've just as easily found decent witnesses and a reverend. He should've just taken her over and all his problems would never have happened.

"Be-atlejuice…" a french-accented voice called from down the hall. "Why are 'oo so down in zee dumps? Ginger and I were 'eaded out to go shopping. Want to come?"

Beetlejuice shot the doorway a deadly look and snarled. "Kind of brooding here, Jaques!"

"Oh, sorry. See 'oo in a few 'ours."

The ghost waited until he heard the front door close before getting up to pace angrily. It was no longer about getting out; it was about getting revenge. It was about getting his own back. How _dare_ some living-world broad get the better of _him_?

Because she didn't go through it, he never got reimbursed for his services to the Maitlands, however unappreciated and unneeded they were. So, the way he figured it, he was setting out to get back what belonged to him anyway.

* * *

Lydia tossed and turned in her bed, dreams and nightmares one and the same in her mind. Her half-opened eyes focused on nothing around her as she remained in deep REM sleep. Her chest rose and fell in erratic patterns as her gut roiled, screaming to be settled.

_So much darkness and…neon lights. The whole wide world is spinning. I'm falling, falling! Stripes and stripes and stripes._

Her mind raced, delusional in its heavy sickness. Nightmares of ghoulish faces and familiar people plagued her, with blood and bone and bright, harsh lights. She wanted so badly to get free, to wake up or fall asleep. But she was caught in it and was slowly suffocating in it; drowning in it.

Lydia Deetz was indeed dying in it.


	2. To The Rafters

**To enhance your reading, try listening to the songs on Evanescence's album "Fallen" with the exception of "My Immortal".**

Beetlejuice flew through the house, trying to find something to help him get back to the living world. The motel was full of crazy supernatural stuff like that, and odds were he'd find something.

Coming across a little-used room on one of the upper levels, he found a huge pile of cardboard boxes stuffed with dusty books and other trinkets. Attacking the mountain, he forgot to brake fast enough and collided into the boxes.

Amidst an avalanche of cardboard, he spotted something interesting; a full-length mirror framed in a kind of wood that he didn't really recognize. Inlaid in the wood were strange words and symbols that he discovered open closer inspection.

_This is it_.

He ran his fingers over the glass and was startled when all of a sudden, the image of a bedroom appeared in it. As he peered closer, he recognized the shape of a young woman lying on the bed, her face obscured by shadow, but her body obviously sick. Her skin was wan with exertion, pale and weak. Her legs were drawn up close to her body, trying to conserve heat. But still she shivered and – as he realized he could actually _hear_ her – let out little moans of misery.

Then he knew.

"Lydia…"

His lips parted in a manic grin as his eyes narrowed. Oh, this was _perfect_. If he could just somehow get over there, he could bring her back to the Neitherworld without any kind of fight on her part. It'd be easy as a bought-and-paid-for hooker.

But no such luck. No matter how he tried, he couldn't get past the glass barrier that stood between him and vengeance.

_Ok, so I can't be there physically. What about _psychically

He focused his mind on the girl in the picture and suddenly he felt as if he'd slid through realities like gelatin through a tube. Instantly he was in her mind, seeing the wild images that haunted her like she did him.

"Whoa. This chick was sick _before_ she got this virus," was all he thought before realizing that the sporadic lights and colors had evened out to reveal an actual scene: she was cowering in the darkened hallway below the huge form of a snake with his head. The beast was reared back, ready to strike, when suddenly his normal, life-sized figure took its place.

She was still curled up against the wall and hadn't noticed the change when he walked over, put his hands on his hips, and scowled.

"We had a deal, you minx," he snarled coldly.

She drew in a shallow breath and hugged herself tightly, so tightly that her fingernails cut into her flesh and drew blood. "No…no! It wasn't worth it! No!" she cried out.

"I don't care if it was or wasn't! You made a deal and you didn't follow through. That spells 'rat' in my book, babes."

She was crying. He saw the frightened tears, the clenched teeth, and felt _nothing_ for her. She'd put him through the ringer. It was only fair she got hers.

"Please…just leave me alone! I want to wake up…this can't be real. Or if it is, I want to fall asleep…" she wept.

It was too perfect. Now he finally got to put his other skills to good use. Forever it had just been the flashy parlor tricks that got the job done fast and clean. But, if you really wanted to fuck with someone, you had to work the _mind_ as well as the instinctive bodily fright.

"Ah, babes…" he soothed cruelly, kneeling down to lightly caress her cheek. "It's real. Your mind makes it real. And this is somewhere you just can't hide from me. I got a 24-hour invitation; I'm not gonna leave you alone."

"Please…please…" she whispered unendingly, trying to shy away from his touch.

"You know you're asleep, right? That you're warm and safe in your bed at home, with your mom and dad watching over you. They're so worried, babe. They're _so worried_…"

"But I'm fine," she cried. "I'm just so scared…"

"But you're not. You're not fine. You're locked up in here with only your nightmares to keep you company. And I've come to make it much, _much_ worse."

Oh, how she receded into herself to despair. He could almost taste the hopelessness she was emitting. She believed every syllable he spoke. It was like molding warm putty.

"I've come to take what's mine."

She shook her head slightly to defy him, pushing closer to the wall. But he was enjoying himself far too much to give her any rest.

"It's so _lonely_ where I am now. It's cold, and dark, and scary there. But I remember you once said you wanted to go."

"No…_no_. Not anymore."

Ignoring her, he continued his cruel speech with a sick grin. "So I decided; you put me through a _lot_ of shit for the past few months. From wasting my life and money to getting me landed in a hellhole of a hovel, I figure I owe you a _lot_, don't I? Jeez, I just don't know _where_ to begin paying you back for making my life a living Hell."

When she didn't respond, he reached around her and lifted her up into his arms. She tried to escape his touch, shutting her eyes tight, but he made his way haphazardly into her dream version of her room.

The ceiling was thirty feet high, the walls and decorations stark and cold. Her bed was a gothic four-poster whose posts rose up into infinity while the frame was an insanity-inducing polygon. Proportions in this room were the products of a very unstable mind.

He dropped her on the hard mattress and loomed over her, madness glinting in his yellowed eyes. While her fetal position loosened slightly, he suddenly dropped down, intent on intimidation, hands on either side of her head and his face inches from her own.

"This may just be a dream," he whispered into her ear, "and you may wake up soon. But just know: this nightmare will keep running over and over again in your head. 'Till you're too afraid to fall asleep anymore."

He noticed now her eyes were wide open and staring at the ceiling in sheer terror. They focused on nothing, only on a point a million miles away. Somewhere far away from here.

Surprised and pleased to see some change in her, he buried his face in her hair and inhaled its scent. "God, you're beautiful."

Her words were fragile, full of the carnal essence of despair. "Please don't do this," she pleaded.

Now it was time for the clincher; the end-all, beat-all final words that would make her snap. "May as well give in now; I'm gonna come in your dreams until you call me.

"I'm gonna make you _scream_ my name to the rafters, babes."

And he left her there, frozen and speechless and broken on her bed. In the real world, her heart skipped a beat and she forgot to breathe. And because at the same time her father, Charles Deetz, had been trying to find a healthy pulse in her wrist and felt the missed beat, he panicked and demanded Delia help him get the girl to the hospital. Maybe the doctors could explain why his daughter seemed to be slipping away.


	3. Locked Up

"Sir, really. All our sources say your daughter just has a stomach virus. Probably a 72-hour one. It'll _pass_."

"I'm telling you, her heartbeat skipped! I felt it! And she wasn't breathing!"

Charles Deetz was beside himself with frustration. The doctors had simply examined his daughter for a mere five minutes before passing judgement. And all three of them had said the same thing; stomach flu.

"Charles, maybe it _is_ just a stomach virus…" Delia tried to sooth, but he would not be placated.

"Listen, buster. I make more in one year than the average medical intern makes in two. If I wanted to be spared the details simply because I _look_ like I couldn't afford the treatment, I'd be going to her pediatrician!" he snapped.

The doctor shook his head. "Mr. Deetz, I think you're overreacting. Really, it's _just_ the virus."

He let out a groan of exasperation and looked over to his daughter who lay sleeping on the padded table. Her breathing was even, but her brows were knit in pain. Her lips were slightly parted to reveal clenched teeth, and the dried trails from tears gone past lined her wan cheeks.

"There's _nothing_ that can be done to help her?"

"Nothing that's worth it. All it takes is patience. She'll come around, sir."

Mr. Deetz, comforted by his wife, left the room and went to sit down and collect their thoughts. Delia, unconvinced of the dire malady her daughter might or might not have, only cared to calm her husband. After all, it just looked like Lydia was sick. Not terminal.

Meanwhile, the doctor closed the door just as Lydia's eyes snapped open.

* * *

She let out a hellish shriek and clapped her hands over her eyes. In an instant, the doctor had returned with two nurses, one male one female, and they tried to calm her. But her cry went on for at least a minute after it had first begun, shrill and piercing.

"Lydia! Lydia, calm down!" the doctor tried to shout over her scream. The nurses tried to pry her hands away from her face, but she wouldn't lay eyes on the world around her.

Her parents, summoned by the noise, ran back to see the room in chaos: the doctor was frantically paging for help, the nurses were still trying to tear their daughter's hands away from herself where she dug the nails into her forehead as if to drive them into her brain.

"Lydia! _Lydia_!" Charles and Delia cried, joining the nurses in attempting to free her. But the girl went on screaming, now in short, shrill lengths. Slowly her cries died down until she was doing nothing more than whimpering. By then, they'd transferred her to a gurney where they'd tied down her wrists to keep her from slicing open her skin.

"Alright, Mr. Deetz," their doctor sighed, rubbing his temples and trying to lose the ringing in his ears. "It's plain to see that Lydia is severely traumatized from _something_. She's been psychologically hurt, and this is something we can't solve with medicine. I recommend letting us keep her overnight for observation."

"What does that mean?" Delia asked frantically. "Charles. What does that _mean_?"

Her husband kept his eyes locked on the doctor, a cold and emotionless tone in his voice. "It means they're gonna lock her up. It means they think she's crazy."

"_No_, sir. It just means-…"

"You don't think I know what 'observation' means when there's no physical wound, Mr. Eight-years-of-medical-school? I'm no idiot."

The man threw up his hands. "Fine then. Call it what you want. All I'm saying is that she will be _safe_ here, under our close examination and protection. She won't get hurt in an accident that could happen very easily if we released her to you."

Delia clung to her husband, eyes wide with worry. Charles as well tried to hold back his emotions as he realized nothing he could do right then could help his child. With disdain, he nodded and went over to kiss Lydia on the forehead.

"We'll be back early tomorrow, pumpkin," he managed. "Just try to sleep it off, alright?"

Her eyelid twitched at this and she let out a little sound of fright. He dismissed it as separation anxiety; she knew they were leaving her here.


	4. The Choice

As the Deetzs left minus one member of the family, the two nurses placed a blue blanket over Lydia and rolled the gurney through the pastel-colored halls towards the Psyche Ward. As they boarded the service elevator and positioned the gurney properly, the man turned to his companion.

"Jesus…you think she's even in there anymore?" he whispered into her ear.

They both stared at the girl's wide eyes that stared into nothingness and the woman shivered. "I'm creeped out just looking at her. I hate the crazies; it's like they're sub-human. Glad I don't work the night shift in there."

"Well, you know Thompson. That old bat _loves_ catering to them. Personally, I think _she_ belongs on one of these beds."

The doors opened and they pushed the cart down a hall lit by bare fluorescent lights. Under the glow, all their skin appeared with a greenish tint, but Lydia's shone a sickly yellow because of the pale flesh corrupted by her illness. Finally they pushed through a pair of double doors and rolled her into a spot behind a curtain, which they drew around her and checked in with Marian Thompson, the night nurse in that department.

The stout crone glanced at them over her half-moon glasses and smiled. "Hello, kiddies. Brought be another one then?"

"Yeah, Marian," the female nurse answered. "She's a screamer. Give her some Valium or something; just knock her out. Save yourself the trouble."

"Oh, dear, we don't waste too much sleep medicine on these ones. I just take out my hearing aid and I'm perfectly happy all night long. I _do_ have my books."

The man eyed the short stack of dime-store romance novels and mentally retched. The idea of someone as old and senile as Marian Thompson still enjoying books of that nature made _him_ sick.

As they left, they shot one more look at the young woman who, up until ten minutes ago, had only been a sick little girl.

* * *

Beetlejuice grinned as he stared into the mirror. Well, this had turned out better than he expected; now she really _was_ all alone. Adam and Barbara were out of the picture; so were the Deetzs. All he had to worry about was a soon-to-be-completely-deaf old lady burying her nose in harlequin romance novels. Hardly a stellar defense against the Ghost with the Most.

Now, it was simply a waiting game. What would come first: Lydia's partial salvation in the form of the Deetzs…or sleep?

* * *

Lydia's eyes watered, aching to be closed. The seconds ticked by like hours, and she got more and more sleepy. It was hard to concentrate entirely on staying awake.

Never mind the fact that she was tied down to a madman's gurney and left alone in a completely deserted wing of the hospital. Ignore the fact that that the only person keeping her company couldn't care less about her. Disregard her parents' abandonment of her. No, all she cared about was staying awake. She knew he couldn't come if she was awake.

When she first felt her eyes drooping, she screamed to keep herself awake. She let out piercing cries to focus her energy. And just as her throat was getting ragged, into her vision came a short woman scowling at her.

"Now, now, dear. I can't have you keeping everyone else awake. Stop that."

But Lydia defied her and cried out as loud as she could. However, she was silenced by a pill falling into her mouth along with a small amount of water.

To keep from choking to death, Lydia swallowed and felt tears come to her eyes. Oh, how could the woman be so cruel? Didn't she know what she was doing?

"I said we didn't waste much medicine on you. But we do use it when necessary. Now, nighty-night. Don't let the bed-bugs bite," the woman crooned, leaving Lydia's plane of vision.

She began to cry. It wasn't fair. She wasn't crazy. She _wasn't_. Didn't belong here…didn't deserve this…didn't…_didn't_…

* * *

"Welcome back, babes."

The world around them looked like it wasn't real. Everything was too…_strange_. Too uniform.

"See what I had to deal with? I tell you, it's hell living in a model."

Beetlejuice was perched on a cardboard gravestone not ten feet away, inspecting the material with a bored eye. However, his disinterest in the scenery wasn't reflected in the grin he sported.

Lydia closed her eyes. Maybe if she couldn't see it, it wouldn't be real. Maybe she'd go into another dream. Maybe, if she prayed hard enough, the God she never really thought about would let her wake up.

"Oh no, Lyds. That nurse was _really_ nice with the stuff she gave you. You're conked out for a good eight hours more." He pushed off the tombstone and hooked his thumbs in his pockets. "You're in here for a while."

So she tried screaming to wake herself up. Her throat, ragged and sore, could hardly bear the strain after so much abuse; her voice sputtered and died. Soon, all that came out was a breathy whisper.

He cracked up. "You just keep shooting yourself in the foot, don't you? I'm tellin' you; just give it up."

She shook her head profusely "no", backing up against a grave marker and holding tight to it as if trying to get some kind of grip on the wild world she was in. He watched her actions and cocked his head as if a flash of insight hit him out of the blue.

"I got it!" he exclaimed, venturing a bit close. "I'll tell you what…"

Kneeling, he leveled eyes with her and narrowed his pupils. "Now, we're gonna do this. There's no choice in that. Eventually, come Hell or high water, I'm dragging you back to the Neitherworld. _But_…you can just say my name now, and we skip this scene.

"Or…and I'm _really_ hoping you'll choose this one…we can do this the _fun_ way."

Her eyes went wide and a bolt of fear ran down her spine. Frozen, she could only stare, wordlessly, as his grin just got wider and wider when she didn't respond.

"Goody."

* * *

Charles Deetz sat back in his easy chair, drink in hand. As he took another sip from the glass, he felt the alcohol hit the back of his head and send another wave of euphoria through him.

It felt like his life was falling apart around him; like Lydia had been the glue that had kept his sanity together. After the whole episode with the exorcism only six months ago, his nerves had never and probably _would_ never recover. Delia didn't really understand. She assumed he was just fragile at times; she understood when not to bother him with minutia.

But she was so wrong. Now, he could _never_ bother with minutia. Worrying about what color the new drapes would be could kill him or drive him certifiably insane. In fact, he felt as if _he_ was the one that belonged in the psyche ward tonight instead of his poor daughter.

And that was the most frustrating part; no one knew what the hell was wrong with her! If they could at least give a name to her pain, it could ease some of the worry. Or at least some of the confusion. They'd know what to do and what not to do and generally how to cope with it. But this sickness was so volatile; they had no idea if they were making her _sicker_ by not doing anything.

He tipped back the rest and dropped the glass, where it hit the floor and rolled away, a tiny chip of crystal left behind where it had impacted. He stared at the sliver of glass and felt his eyes go out of focus.

_That's all I am these days. A cracked cup._

Charles threw his head back and his vision slipped over the ceiling, picking out the horizontal beams that crossed above him. There were eight in all. They were made of dark hardwood, supporting the roof above. Without them, the room would cave in.

Drunk as a skunk, he began to name them. One by one, he blessed them with good, Christian names, and when he'd finished he let out a smirk and went back to realize that he'd named every last one of them "Lydia".

* * *

Marian Thompson saw the red light blinking and reached for her hearing aid. Popping it in and marking her place in the book she was reading, she picked up the phone.

"Hello?"

The voice on the other end was ragged and upset. "Marian, I've got someone here who says they need to know how the girl in your ward is doing. Can you just check up on her for a second?"

Ms. Thompson stood up and took the cordless phone with her. As she crossed the room, she observed the girl's rapid eye movement and small whimpering sounds of deep slumber. Within seconds, the girl went completely still. Her breathing shallow, her REM sleep continued as she lay frozen under the covers.

Marian smiled softly and brought the earpiece back up to her head.

"No worries, dear. She's dreaming."


	5. Just Like He Said

Lydia lay sprawled on the floor, cuts and bruises peppering her fair skin. The past few hours had all been dark and soundless; after coming back into consciousness – or what passed for it in this dream-world – all she remembered was the pain.

Physical and psychological.

"You know what, babes?" he asked, across the blank white room and picking his nails with a bloodied blade. "Do me a favor and just don't say it. I'm having _way_ too much fun."

She coughed up dark blood and watched it spray out over the pure white floor. For the slightest moment, she was worried about staining it and getting in trouble. Then, realizing how absurd her thoughts were, she even laughed a little.

"What's so funny?"

She grimaced and tried to push herself up. "Why?"

"Hmm?" He turned, surprised to hear her speak. "Why what?"

Losing energy, she collapsed back on the floor, breathing hard. "What's the point of…letting you free…when you're already raising hell in my head?"

He walked over and looked down at her with disgust. "You really don't get it. I don't give a rat's ass about getting out anymore. It's all about _you_, Lyds."

Shuddering, she let out the first tear since everything had gone black. God, then this was it? He'd torment her until he really did drive her insane or she died. That was it. She really should have just listened to him at first.

"What would happen?" she managed.

He looked up with a contemplative countenance. "Oh, I don't know. A quick trip to City Hall, we say our vows, I get out, I kill you, and you get to pass on because the Neitherworld only takes mistakes."

She held her breath. "What?"

"Yeah. Murders go somewhere else. I don't know really where. And I really, _really_ don't care. But if _you_ wanna hang around the living plane and keep this up, then _please_, have a ball."

Lydia rolled over onto her back and stared at the white ceiling, her eyes filled with unshed tears and her skin burning with pain. Her head was pounding in her skull and all she wanted to do was have it all _stop_. "I feel…tingly," she whispered.

"What?"

"My…head's reeling. What's-…"

* * *

Everything was muted and dark. Pale blue filmy walls surrounded her and the only light was gold and beyond the barrier around her. Voices murmured from a distance and her ears were ringing.

Lydia rolled her head from side to side, letting out a breathy sigh. Was she…was she _really_ awake? Or was this another dream?

Suddenly the azure curtain beside her was pulled away and she beheld the two nurses from last night. They grabbed the gurney and pulled her to the service elevator, where they climbed a few stories before getting out. They wheeled her into a cheery, pale-white room, where they laid her in a real bed and opened the window.

Lydia sniffed the air, elated at just the simple scent of the outdoors. Birds were singing outside. There was grass. The sky was just so clear…

"Lydia, pumpkin?"

Her father's voice. She turned to see his careworn face, smiling a bit at her. She gave him a tired, beaming look and reached for his hand. "Dad…I'm awake!"

"Yeah, honey. I know. Are you feeling ok?" His haggard eyes pleaded for a positive answer, but she read between the lines and furrowed her brows in question.

"Are you…hung-over?"

He faltered. "Well…a little. I was just so worried, you know? But please, Lydia. Are you ok?"

"I'm fine."

"Nice to hear it, Lydia. Well, look at this place! It's simply _dreary_. It needs some color." Delia's voice invaded the quiet room and her stepmother's figure came into focus, carrying a pile of harsh, bright-hued items that she began to hang on the walls. They were impressionistic paintings that looked like they belonged in a children's classroom for the obviously color-blind.

"My God, Delia. Can't you see she's still recovering? Put those away; they'll burn her retinas!" Charles demanded.

"Well, I'm sorry for trying to cheer her up through art!"

"The last time you tried to cheer anyone up with art, it attacked us and held us hostage while our daughter was almost married to the dead!"

The humor in her parent's spat was instantly lost on Lydia when her father mentioned that ill-fated day. She receded into herself, ignoring the remained of their argument until finally her father touched her hand.

"Lydia, if you're tired, we understand. We'll let you sleep."

At his words, she tensed up and pleaded. "No! No, I don't want to sleep! Please, don't give me any more pills!"

"Of course not, pumpkin!" he assured, confused at her paranoia. "We wouldn't force you to."

"Only if the doctor told us to," Delia chimed in, meaning the best but unfortunately coming out heartless.

Lydia sighed and leaned back once again. She was safe…for now. He was still in her head; she felt him. But as long as she was awake, he might as well be halfway around the world. He couldn't touch her.

Exhausted and so very comfortable, by the time she realized it she was already falling back to sleep.

* * *

As soon as she came back into her dream-world consciousness, someone backhanded her across the face and she flew backwards, landing hard on the ground.

"Where do you get off waking up?" he snarled, advancing. "Just where do you get the nerve to just blow me off? I was _talkin'_ to you, dammit! And I thought _I_ was rude!"

She began to cry. It was so unfair! No matter how often she seemed to escape him, she always ended up back here.

"Better get used to it, babes. You can run as far as you can, but I'm always gonna be in your head." Reaching down, he grabbed a handful of hair and pulled her to her feet.

"Why can't you just let go?" he taunted, shoving her backwards. "Geez, Lyds. You keep obsessing over this stuff, it's gonna drive you _nuts_. Just give _up_!"

He pushed her up against a wall and held her upper arms tight. Close to her face, he whispered, "Just _say_ it."

And because she was so hurt, inside and outside, and was so tired, and was ready for whatever else the future held besides pain and torture and fear, Lydia finally threw back her head and screamed it.

"_Beetlejuice, Beetlejuice, Beetlejuice!_"

Just like he said she would.


	6. Acidic Outs

His eyes snapped open and he gasped, filling his lungs with the acidic oxygen that surrounded him. He sat up, rubbed his head and blinked, yawning.

Suddenly Beetlejuice stopped. Where-…where the hell was he?

The walls were covered with colors that could never appear in nature. The harsh tones hurt his eyes, and he looked away. Along the wall, below the gauze-draped windows, were all sorts of electrical beeping things that looked extremely expensive. A stainless steel pole stood next to him, holding a bag full of a clear liquid that continued to drip into a tube that led down and fed into a pale arm…

Suddenly he looked down. He was floating over Lydia! Her inert body lay, still deep in sleep, tucked under the thin waffle-patterned blanket of a hospital. She wore one of those paper gowns, off-white and loose and slipping down over her shoulder. Her black hair was strewn over the pillow, mussed and bringing out the dark circles under her eyes.

He was…out!

Now, usually he'd go rushing off in glee, wreaking havoc and other kinds of mayhem without properly thinking this through. And while he certainly didn't plan on staying here for hours to muse over the exact physics of how he escaped her mind, he did know this required some thought.

Obviously she was still asleep. Probably not dreaming, however. Her eyes weren't moving back and forth in REM patterns; instead her breathing was slow and steady and her face did not look pained.

That was another thing that surprised him: seeing her face without all the cuts and bruises that he'd inflicted in the dreams. Her smooth, unmarred skin was pale and sickly, yes, but not broken and bleeding. It kind of pissed him off on some deep level. To find out that all his work was gonna go unnoticed.

Sniffing at this, he stepped down to the floor and blinked. Was that the time? A digital lime-green clock read that it was 2:14 AM, and he glanced to the dark window for closure. Yep. It was pretty early in the morning.

Suddenly a grin blossomed across his face. It couldn't get any easier. Lydia was out cold, it would be hours before anyone noticed she was missing, and it just so happened that he recalled that the Maitlands happened to have a door to the Neitherworld drawn on their attic wall. They wouldn't be able to put up much of a fight, not against the Ghost with the Most.

Assuming the drip was the only thing keeping Lydia unconscious, he carefully unhooked the bag but kept it upside-down as he rested it on her body. Carefully, he wrapped her tight up in the blanket, more out of assuring she wouldn't slip out or be able to kick or fight if she happened to wake up rather than trying to keep her warm. Finally, getting a good grip on the corners and hooking it over his shoulder, he pushed the window open with his boot, kicked out a hole in the screen, and flew out into the empty night with Lydia in tow.

* * *

"I wish they'd come home and tell us something, Adam," Barbara worried, pacing the floor and chewing on her nails. "I mean, this is driving me crazy! Poor Lydia's locked up in that…_nuthouse_ at the Deetzs don't even call us to tell us what's going on? They _know_ we're worried!"

"Barb, I'm just as concerned as you. But we have to remember; everyone's under a lot of stress right now and I don't think they're concerned with keeping us in the loop. They're more involved with being there for Lydia, which is more than we can do. All we can do is wait and hope they'll give us a call or something."

"Even if they did, do you think we can use the phone?"

He cocked his head. "I…don't know."

"It's just our luck; even if we could, we probably couldn't talk over it. Or we might come out all creepy and scratchy, like in those horror movies. That's all we need is to frighten people even _more_." She wrung her hands and stopped her pacing. "I wish they'd call!"

All of a sudden, as if God had decided to cut the Maitlands a break, the phone rang. They stared at each other for a moment before scrambling downstairs to get it. Adam got to the receiver first, fumbled with it for a second and finally placed it to his ear.

"Hello? Charles? Delia? Can you understand me?" he said in a slow voice, as if speaking to a child. Barbara hung on his elbow, leaning in, trying to listen to the conversation.

Something crackled before a voice came over the line.

"Yeah, everything's fine. We're in the room and Delie just went for coffee."

Adam froze. Never, not _once_, did he _ever_ hear Charles refer to his wife as "Delie." "Charles? Is that you?" he croaked.

Suddenly the line disconnected, and all that was left was that suspenseful beeping that resounded in the kitchen. Adam and Barbara stared at each other before dashing upstairs, knowing instinctively that something was terribly, terribly wrong.

They both arrived in the attic just in time to see the brick door in the wall slam back into place, the green light dying away with the last echoes of a manic, triumphant laugh.


	7. Just Sign

(A/N): I don't usually do these, but I figured this chapter deserved some recognition.

I never expected "Rightfully Mine" to have attracted so many people, especially with all the violent themes and an absolute lack of any kind of romantic relationship between the two characters. However, it's second only to "Transitions" as my most-reviewed fic and it's the fifth-highest ranked reviewed fic in the Beetlejuice category (as of tonight), so I guess you guys must like it.

The hell with it. I'd like to dedicate the whole darn story to **Lacey**, who's been there from the beginning of my BJ fanfic days and I've always looked up to in the fandom, and **Wanda** who's been an avid reader and has never failed to crack me up with her reviews and has been awesomely patient with me regarding our long-standing deal, but this chapter is especially for **Semine** **Midnight**, who just made my bloody day the other night. Frankly, it was her who got me off my lazy butt and writing another chapter, so you can all trot over and thank her and read some of her fics while you're at it.

And I'll get to the chapter now.

* * *

Lydia's eyes opened slowly, blurred and unfocused. Her head was swimming in something that pushed against her skull and made her see colors that didn't match those she last remembered being in her hospital room.

She moaned a bit and rolled her head to one side, and suddenly she felt a cold breeze against her exposed ear. Furrowing her brows, she turned to see through a fold in the blanket that there was no bed beneath her.

Rather, there was _nothing_ beneath her.

Catching a frozen scream in her throat, she closed her eyes and felt a tear escape. She was dreaming again. And that meant more suffering, more pain. More of _him_. Why should she care that there was no ground below her?

Feelings of rising and falling in her gut caused her to try to get her head out of the cradle of fabric to see what was happening. Suddenly she saw that he was holding the corners of the blanket as they were flying through the void. Frowning, she realized she was losing body heat quickly and pulled herself back in.

So he wasn't intent on her torture just now. Well, that gave her time to try to wake up. She looked down suddenly as a cruel shock of pain shot through the back of her hand; what the hell was that? A white patch of gauze was taped over a long, thin needle that was shoved up her vein! Grimacing, Lydia tore the dressing off and slowly, painstakingly drew the needle out.

What was that doing in her dream? She stared at the silver shaft as it slowly leaked a clear liquid over her. Maybe it was what her mind figured he was using to keep her asleep. She didn't really care. With a gesture of defiance, she shoved it out of the blanket and watched for a moment as it fell down through the mist, a butterfly missing a wing trailing sparkling fluid like rain going backwards.

But it attracted his attention. "What the-…"

She felt a quick dip and one corner of the blanket above loosened as he opened it up to gaze down with a surprised grin. "Mornin', babes. We're almost there anyway."

She felt the chill all over her body and realized she was wearing nothing more than that hospital gown. What was going on with all the medical paraphernalia? Was this some stranger dream triggered by the last? She curled up in a ball, preserving heat and still shivering.

They flew on for a bit longer before they began to descend. Lydia felt herself hit something solid and decidedly metal as the blanket fell on her from above. Suddenly, though, even that was ripped away as he disentangled her from it and picked her up to stand on her own two feet.

"Welcome to City Hall, babe. Take a good look; you're not gonna see the outside again."

Without bothering to figure out what he meant by that, Lydia looked up. In front of her was a façade that may have been designed by a madman: angles were harshly distorted against each other and the colors were all mute shades of black and gray, while the windows glowed a dull orange from within. The steps were crumbling and illegible graffiti decorated some of the columns on the landing.

Roughly he took her arm and led her up the steps. She stumbled only once, catching her foot on the uneven stairs and tripping, but they made it inside in a matter of seconds.

Skeleton secretaries. Rotting corpses serving as businessmen. Unsorted papers dappling the floor as far as the eye could see. These were the images that met Lydia Deetz's horrified eyes. In all the movies she'd seen, all the books she'd read and art she'd admired in her teenaged gothic frenzy, she may have imagined something like this. But the thing she would have _never_ wanted to imagine was the smell and the simple feeling of overwhelming, heavy despair. These people – if they could be called or ever were people – were doing nothing of consequence and had been and would never do anything that would ever matter in the end. They were simply filing blank pieces of paper that were supposed to concern the dead, but of course had no information on them because dead people don't _do_ anything and have nothing. Utter uselessness and complete hopelessness.

Beetlejuice pulled her through the sea of wandering employees and steered them towards an office near the back. The frosted glass window in the door read "Ms. I. Emma Chaplain, Head of Marriage and Divorce" and Lydia almost smirked at the name if she hadn't remembered where she was and who she was with.

He gave her a sickening grin as he opened the door and pushed her in, following and slamming the door behind them.

Lydia looked up in awe. They were in a huge hexagonal room, painted dark green. A huge desk stood in front of them, flanked by olive-green filing cabinets that stretched all the way to the ceiling and across three full walls. Light came from a pale off-white single sconce that was set above them and threw only the slightest amount of illumination through the scene.

However, Lydia wasn't staring at any of that. What she had her attentions focused on was the human head and pair of hands that floated in midair, looking over whatever was written on a typewriter in front of it.

The head looked down at the pair in front of it and frowned a bit. "_Beetlejuice_," she sneered. "I had hoped you'd have gotten our auxiliary chaplain to have squared you away and gotten you out of our hair six months ago."

He shrugged and gestured to Lydia. "Wasn't my fault. The girl wouldn't cooperate."

The head, obviously an elderly woman's scowled down at Lydia. "You do realize thanks to you, we've had to put up with him here in the Neitherworld? Thanks a lot, missy."

Lydia gaped. The head was _talking_.

"Can't she speak? You're a real blockhead, Beetlejuice, if you got a mute. She can't very well say 'I do' if she can't speak, can she?" Ms. Chaplain rolled her eyes.

"She can talk. She's just being _shy_," he commented as he gave her a sharp elbow to the side.

Lydia flinched and rubbed her arm. She gave him a dirty look and then looked back to the woman. "I can talk."

"Then why didn't you just say yes? It's not like he'd hang around and consummate the union anyway. He's a dirty lecher, yes, but tie him up and he'll chew his own arm off to get away."

"Hey, I'm _right here_!" he snapped.

"Yes, I can see that," she retorted. Then she turned back to Lydia. "For all our sakes, just sign this." One of her severed hands handed down a pale form with lots of script on it which confused Lydia when she tried to read it.

"What does it say?" she asked.

"It says the undersigned accept and will uphold the following agreement that undersigned legally unify all their material possessions and the deceased member of the agreement will no longer be bound to the necro-world and will be permitted to transcend the boundaries separating said necro-world from the terrestrial plane."

"…What?"

Ms. Chaplain sighed. "It means you two are hitched and he can run free in the living world instead of _here_."

"Oh." A pause. "I'm not signing _this_!"

Ms. Chaplain balked. Beetlejuice, however, gave a curt nod and smiled saccharinely. "Give us a sec." He grabbed Lydia and pulled her over to one side and out of sight.

Brutally, he shoved her up against the wall and growled. "Sign the paper," he hissed. "Or you'll wish you were dead so many times in the next _hour_ it'll make our little tango in your dreams look like child's play."

Lydia winced and clenched her teeth. He was deliberately digging his fingers into her old bruises, or at least where the bruises had been. Wait…she glanced down. Her skin! It was clear!

_Jesus Christ, it wasn't a dream_!

She was awake! There was no mistaking it; if she'd gone back into her nightmare she would have hellish cuts and sores all over her body. But her skin was faultless now, except for where it was now reddening from where he was gripping hard.

She gasped.


	8. Till Death

**(A/N) Here it is, the long-awaited next chapter in the Rightfully Mine Saga. I apologize that it took so long, but what are you gonna do when your schedule is like mine? Oh well, enough with the excuses. On with the show!**

**------------------------------------------------- ------------------------------------------------------**

Beetlejuice smiled, the very termites in his teeth wriggling for joy. So she'd finally gotten it, had she? That it wasn't a dream. That her nightmare had blossomed into an all-too-unbelievable reality. It was too tempting to say something cliché like "Your nightmare's just beginning, babes", but then he would be like all the other cookie-cutter bad guys instead of the demon that he was. He was better than such frivolous statements.

He was the Ghost with the Most, after all.

She was trembling again, her flesh shivering, warm beneath his cold fingertips. Too add insult to injury, he gave her an almost loving caress as he pulled her forward off the wall and towards the desk.

"She's ready," he stated with a malicious grin.

**------------------------------------------------- ------------------------------------------------------**

Her eyes scanned the ornate, spidery script almost unable to read her native language. Words like "union" and "joining" sent a queasy kick to her guts, while terms such as "marital" and "legally binding" were just barely beyond her comprehension. In essence, to sign this paper meant to sign herself away. God could have her soul, but the Devil got her body.

_No, not the Devil,_ she thought. _Worse._

The sharp quill pen floated before her and suddenly she felt him close behind her. The whisper was silky sick, creeping in her ears like worms.

"I can't force you to do this part, babes. You get to do it on your own."

Hot tears streamed down her cheeks as she gripped the pen. She gazed up at the emotionless woman's head above her. No sympathy. No glimmer of hope that this wasn't real. No care at all.

No care.

No more emotion.

Only hurt.

She signed.

**------------------------------------------------- ------------------------------------------------------**

Afterwards, residents of the afterlife would say that there rose from the very bowels of Hell a screeching laughter so manic, so foul, so insane that they imagine Satan, if such a deity existed, had finally managed to kill his greatest adversary and damn him to the darkest circle. Some civil servants, possessing very weak constitutions were actually liquefied in the blast. But it was Lydia Deetz alone who heard nothing.

She was dead!

Beetlejuice descended from the air after his fit of mad glee and opened his eyes. And promptly shrieked.

Lydia lay on the cold marble floor, pale, her skin with an almost blue tint to it. She was not breathing. She was dead.

But more amazingly – hell, entirely amazingly! – was the hand he now held out in front of himself. The fingernails were no longer ragged and discolored; they were pearly pink. His flesh was warm and peach-toned.

"Get me a mirror!" he demanded, jubilant.

"Can't," the old crone stated. "There aren't any on this side."

"Are you kidding me? I switch places with a breather and you don't even have the decency to-…"

"Not 'switch places'," she interrupted. "The marriage is essentially a 'marriage' of assets. You share all the life you two possess, namely hers. Take care of it; it's the only one you've got."

The girl stirred. As she stood up, he saw just how right the old hag was. Lydia was completely devoid of any signs of mortal life. Her face was sunken, her hair dull, her lips pale and blue. But her eyes burned with something he didn't think was left in her after the time she'd just had: rage. He almost shuddered.

"You…" she hissed. "You-…!" Energy – _his_ ghost energy! – crackled around her fists. If the following blast didn't kill him on contact, it would definitely send him into orbit to finish the job.

"Ah-ah-ah!" He waggled a finger at her. "Hurt me, pumpkin, and you'll never breathe again."

This fazed her. Her pupils dilated a bit and she gave him a leering glance. He smirked.

"We share this life now, babes. 'Till death do us part'. You _could_ kill me now, but then we'd both be dead and I'd have free run of you anyhow."

"Oh?" Her voice was at a haunting pitch, low and dangerous and totally unlike the little shrinking violet he knew. Suddenly she was close, her cold lips near his ear. "You'd be surprised," she whispered, "at what you can live through."

"Ooh," he snickered playfully. "I love it when you talk dirty, honey. It kind of puts the fire back in our relationship."

Suddenly there was searing pain between his ears. Her hands were on either side of his head and conducting psychic energy between them through his brain. He hurt. Oh, how it hurt!

Somehow he managed to throw her off. She floated nearby, drifting to and fro, all the while keeping her eyes on him like a cat eyeing a bird. Seemed that she'd inherited not only his ghost powers, but his mania and lust for revenge too.

"I'd love to stick around, but I finally got what was mine," he declared, turning for the door. "If you two birds'll excuse me, I've got a living world to enjoy for the first time in about six hundred years."

**------------------------------------------------- ------------------------------------------------------**

Oh, he was wicked. All this time, all the pain she'd suffered – all to steal her life and just waltz out without a second thought about her! But then, what more could he do? He'd already killed her!

"Beetlejuice!" she howled. "This isn't the end! I'll get you!"

Without turning back, he gave a little wave. "I sincerely hope you do. Whatever a little minx like you could cook up to punish me is bound to tickle in all the right places."

Inconceivable. Even as he traipsed away, without any cosmic powers at all, he could still manage to twist the knife deeper.

**------------------------------------------------- ------------------------------------------------------**

**(A/N) The next (possibly last) chapter is finished and due out in a little bit. Thank you all for your support, and forgive me for keeping you waiting.**


	9. The Honeymoon

As a ghost, Beetlejuice would have been able to cover the distance between City Hall and the Roadhouse in a short time. On foot, however, the journey was long and tiring.

He planned to use the mirror to get back through to the living world. First, just for fun, he'd lay waste to the Deetz's house. Then off to a bar – the Neitherworld didn't have drinks – and maybe a bordello or two to celebrate his homecoming. After all, you only live once!

"Or twice, in my case!" he sniggered.

After three hours of walking, with no Roadhouse in sight and his newly-resurrected body aching from fatigue, he stretched out on a roadside bench to rest. However, his rest became a doze, which became a nap, which soon became a deep slumber.

-------------------------------------------- --------------------------------------------

Beetlejuice blinked. Or rather, he closed his eyes and then opened them. Everything moved so slow all of a sudden. He could almost separate the synapses in his brain. The world was white.

_Well, this is a fine how-do-you-do_.

He rolled his eyes and crossed his arms as he turned to regard the seething spook he knew would be right behind him.

"Come on, Lyds," he chuckled. "You can't use the same bit. Especially since one: I know exactly what's coming so you lose the dramatic effect and two: you don't have the psychic pair to pull off my act."

She gave a dark grin. "Wrong and wrong. You may think you know, but I promise you that it's _nothing_ like the torture you exacted on me. I don't plan on wasting time. And I assure you, I will indeed pull this off."

"Ooh, she _talks_ all big. Keep that up and you won't be the only one who pulls something off."

"Still mouthing off. But look who's mortal now!"

"Kill me and you're dead for good."

"But _hurt_ you, and the battered husband will cry for divorce."

"Yeah? How are you going to hurt me, cupcake? Another raging headache?"

Suddenly he let out a little cry of pain, more from surprise than real discomfort. Paper-thin slices slashed across his arms and face, caused by sheer energy carefully blasted off of her. Blood spattered his skin, but he only winced and smirked.

"Is that the best you can do, babes? A few cuts?"

More this time, decidedly deeper and tearing his shirt, cutting his torso.

"Gonna have to come up with something new, kid. This isn't working."

His sides were lacerated, the waist of his pants mutilated and blood oozed from the deep slits on his hips.

"I thought I told you-…" Suddenly he froze mid-laugh. The smirk on her face and where her eyes were looking was unmistakable. She was going after the family jewels next!

"Whoa! Ok, Lyds, chill out!" he cried, cupping with one hand and throwing out the other as he slowly backed away. "Just…just calm down!"

The smile got wider as she drifted closer. "I told you I wouldn't waste time. And since I'm not just toying, this is for real. No waking world to escape to; I cut you here and you get cut for real."

"C'mon babes! You don't want to do this!"

"Oh, I'm pretty sure I really, really do."

"Can't we talk this over!" he almost wept. "I mean, come on!"

"Sever the contract or I'll sever your-…!"

"OKAY!"

-------------------------------------------- --------------------------------------------

"You know you'll never sleep safe again," Beetlejuice growled as he signed the document. He initialed under the section stating that the undersigned pledged never to wed again, the amendment stating that the undersigned pledged never to contact one another again, and the final postscript that stated that the undersigned would in face cease to remember one another once the contract was validated.

"Empty threats," Lydia snapped as she snatched the pen to sign. "You won't even remember me once this is stamped."

"She's right," the chaplain stated. "You'll never even remember meeting. Lucky girl." She groaned. "_We_ still have to put up with you here."

"I'll find a way to get even. You'll get yours."

She smirked as she finished the final flourish. One of the woman's severed hands raised the stamp. Lydia could almost feel the fresh surge of blood bring life back into her body, almost see the Neitherworld begin to dissipate around her as the concerned faces of her loved ones began to appear.

"You're right," Lydia sighed contentedly, with a last defiant look towards him as the stamp fell. "I just got back what was rightfully mine."

The End


End file.
